


The Five-Twenty (Les Cinq-Vingt)

by BB_Max



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Airbnb - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bars Pubs & Terrasses Parisiennes, Carpenter Lexa (The 100), Cheese & Delicatessen, Doctor Clarke Griffin, Electrician Lexa (The 100), Eventual Smut, F/F, France (Country), French Movies, G!P, Happy Hour - Freeform, Intersex, Lexa Has a Penis (The 100), Mad Cat - Freeform, Mechanic Lexa (The 100), Musician Lexa (The 100), Musicians, Paris (City), Paris on a bicycle, Plumber Lexa (The 100), Recreational Drug Use, french music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-10-18 02:02:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20631263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BB_Max/pseuds/BB_Max
Summary: Clarke Griffin, 29, has spent her entire life trying to make her mother proud. From choosing to follow her illustrious path as a plastic surgeon for the stars (instead of chasing her own dreams of becoming an artist) to accepting Bellamy Blake's proposal (her shy, protective childhood friend who became an insufferable, pretentious actor in a popular TV show), she doesn't recognize herself anymore. In a last ditch attempt to recover her happiness and sense of self, she leaves her pampered, superficial and boring life in L.A. without a word to anyone (not even her best friends Raven and Octavia) for the adventure of a lifetime in her all-time favorite dream destination: Paris, France.





	1. Introduction

“Mesdames et messieurs, nous vous souhaitons la bienvenue à l’aéroport de Paris-Charles de Gaulle. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to…”

The soft-spoken announcement gets muted by the sudden noise of the plane landing and bouncing a couple times before loudly screeching on the runway. Clarke gasps awake at the sudden movement as she feels her body getting propelled forward, one hand jumping up to land flat on the seat in front of her and the other tightly grasping the seatbelt stretched across her belly. She feels dizzy, heart pounding between her ears. A hand patting her forearm and an amused chuckle make her glance to her right and she almost groans and punches herself back into oblivion as she now remembers where she is, and _why_ she chose to swallow two sleeping pills barely forty-five minutes into the long-haul flight.

“Nothing to be afraid of, sweetheart, just a bump on the road. You sure sleep soundly, though! One of the many perks of youth, I guess - never anything too serious on your mind! Ha, what I wouldn’t give to get back to those times with my Jimmy… You should have seen us…”

Clarke immediately tunes out the mindless chatter, leaning back against the headrest with her eyes closed as she slowly breathes in and out. Her mouth and her eyes are dry and she’s desperate for a cigarette. And a croissant. Definitely a croissant. 

Good thing she chose Paris, then.

***

The building in which she rented her apartment, situated in the backyard of another, classical Haussmannian building, is no more than three-story high, devoured by ivy from ground to roof, and probably older than her country. The entry - a bicolor greenish blue and yellow double-door - is at the back of a lovely paved courtyard surrounded by small trees and potted flowers. But the most impressive thing, in this out-of-time scenery, is undoubtedly the vegetable garden eating the entire left side of the courtyard, framed by a wooden fence with a rickety door onto which dangles a sign reading: “POTAGER PRIVÉ” and below, in smaller, multicolor letters: “Tu veux des tomates du jardin? Fais pousser tes tomates du jardin”. Now, Clarke never was the most fluent student at her posh, private Beverly Hills highschool (she’s always been better with science anyway), but she’s fairly certain the sign isn’t exactly neighbor-friendly. And weirdly enough, it kind of makes her want to meet the garden’s owner even more.

A tad intimidated by this new and picturesque environment, Clarke slowly walks the distance to the colorful double-door, cringing at the abominable noise of her enormous suitcase rolling onto the paved ground. She reaches the bottom of the five-step flight of stairs, tries to carry her suitcase, fails, looks around, doesn’t see anybody, tries again, fails again, grumbles moodily with her fingers knotted in her blond hair, huffs, and finally decides to climb up the couple steps without the suitcase. She pauses for a while in front of the intercom, checks something on the printed folded sheet of paper she put in her jeans back pocket earlier in the cab, before pushing the button next to the name “G. DUVAL”, as her Airbnb contact emailed her. The buzzing sound echoes loudly inside the small building - a house, really, when she thinks about it - and when nothing happens after thirty seconds, Clarke tries again, pushing the button a bit longer while firmly knocking with her other hand at the same time. 

Just as she’s about to take her iPhone from the brand-new Chloé purse hanging on her elbow, thus sacrificing the last of her dying battery to call her now infamously elusive Airbnb contact, the bicolor double-door violently opens from the inside with a loud crash, revealing the most terrifying, gigantic, muscled and hairy humanoid creature known to mankind since the invention of Bigfoot. Even worse: the beast is so monstrously oversized that the poker he holds threateningly like a baseball bat looks like a mere toothpick in comparison to his arms and hands. 

“BARREZ-VOUS, BANDE DE VAUTOURS! AVANT QU’J’VOUS ARRACHE LA TÊTE!”, he roars, poker swinging wildly above Clarke’s head, whose big Chanel sunglasses fall from the top of her head to the tip of her nose as she reflexively crouches on the doorstep, and she would have laughed really hard at the ridiculous absurdity of the whole predicament (even harder had her best friend Raven been with her), if she wasn’t so utterly terrified. She tries to say something, do something, anything, but she doesn’t understand a single word the madman is saying - and he’s saying _a lot_ of angry french words right now - and her voice seems trapped somewhere Little Mermaid style. So she does what her parents taught her to do in overpowering, dangerous situations: remove oneself from said situation… or die trying. 

Still half crouched, she retreats hastily and, unfortunately, blindly, as her foot slips on the forgotten step behind and she feels herself briefly flying backward before gravity takes possession of her small frame. _Is this it? Am I really gonna die like this? What a fucking joke!_

She closes her eyes, expecting a thousand lifetimes of excruciating pain in the form of broken bones and severed nerves (she knows exactly how much damage this type of fall can do, she’s a doctor after all) but the violent impact she’s waiting for arrives in a much... softer form, yet firm still, bordering on toned, or even muscled if she dares say so... and this form smells _so good_, both homely and exhilarating, like earth, and rain, and thunder, with a dash of exotic spices and a drizzle of musky, healthy sweat, the kind you may only exude after a long run in the sun or hours spent making sweet, sweet love. Forgotten is the fall: eyes still closed, deaf to all sounds but the blood pumping in her own veins, she nuzzles into the form, finding a warm, baby-soft surface caressing her lips as she takes a big whiff of the intoxicating fragrance… _Is this it? Am I dead? God, I never would’ve felt so bad about unplugging brain-dead patients if I knew!_

And that’s when all of her senses come back. Hearing, for instance.

A gruff, worried voice:

“Hey. She dead?”

A nasal, sinisterly flat voice:

“Such a delicate little thing. Quite unsurprising she must have perished of a heart attack because of you, Gustave. A bit like rabbits do when they encounter a grizzly bear.”

“Come on, I thought it was the bailiff! How was I supposed to know it was the new roommate?!”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe by looking through the peephole?”

“Shut it, you two, she’s waking up”, a third, deep feminine voice says.

Clarke groans, squirming a bit in what appears to be a hard, scratchy, uncomfortable… bed? She blinks several times, waiting for her vision to focus. The first thing her blurry eyes see is…

“Green…”

She blinks again, more forcefully, starting to discern the absurdly beautiful feminine face drawn around the aquamarine gems, before immediately closing her eyes again and whimpering at the sudden pain on the back of her head.

“Jesus, what the hell happened? How… where… who are you?”, she croaks, hand stroking the sore spot, while slowly sitting in the bed.

“ Weeeell, about that…”, the woman starts.

Clarke finally opens her eyes completely and almost jumps off the mattress in fright at seeing her attacker standing with his head low at the foot of the bed, between the woman with the aquamarine eyes and an older guy with a long face and a bald head regally draped in a long and plushy black bathrobe.

“Y-y-yo-YOU...!”, she sputters, shaky finger pointed towards the giant as she’s simultaneously trying to retreat inside the wall behind her. “You almost killed me, you sociopath!”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else! I’m so sorry!”, he implores sheepishly, cowering on the spot as best as he can with his enormous body. Clarke scoffs, unforgiving.

“Is that what you were gonna tell the cops after you _murdered_ me? ‘Sorry I thought she was someone else’? Oooh, I’m so gonna sue your ass, you freaking lunatic!”

At the word “sue”, the goliath pouts and frowns behind his fluffy beard. Clarke, mistaking his embarrassment for rage, instinctively _squeaks_ and starts shivering.

“Whoa, whoa, let’s all calm down, ok?”, the other woman intervenes, hands raised palms up in a placating gesture. “We don’t want to do anything rash”.

“Anything rash?!” Clarke zeroes in on her, her fury somewhat dissipating the shyness she would have otherwise felt talking to someone so gorgeous. “Please say that to Bigfoot over there!”

“Nice choice of words, Lexa”, the bald guy, silent until now, scoffs behind his fist.

“Not helping, Titus”, the woman, Lexa, grits between her teeth while sending said Titus a glowering look. Then, turning back to Clarke with the most sincere expression on her face, hand gently grasping the blonde’s wrist on the bed: “Look, I’m very sorry about this mess. It appears my friend Gustus and I had a misunderstanding concerning the day of your arrival, and I know it doesn’t excuse nor erase the terrible incident you just endured, but please rest assured that we’re all willing to take our responsibility for what happened to you. Aren’t we, gentlemen?”

At this point, Clarke’s wrath is evaporating so quickly that she completely misses the men’s replies and simply nods a bit dumbly, beguiled by the other woman’s charm and her calm, soft-spoken demeanor. _How did she do that? How did she just appease me so fast?_ The thought, instead of calming her further, actually turns her anger into a vague sense of irritation.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you just fine,'' she blatantly lies with a dismissive gesture. “Now, care to explain how I got here on this bed, miss… Lexa, was it?” 

“Oh! Where are my manners, of course!”, she stands from her seat while rubbing her palms over her thighs. “The gentleman on your left is Titouan Delpêche, we call him Titus, what with his unpronounceable name for us Americans (_What the hell, you pronounced it perfectly_, Clarke thinks moodily), and, um, the big fellow over there is Gustave Duval - Gus or Gustus for friends. And yes, I’m Lexa, Lexa Woods. Nice to meet you.”, she sits back down on the wooden chair and extends her hand with a glowing Award-winning smile that renders Clarke’s cognitive abilities to mush in approximately half a second. 

“Clarke. Griffin. Clarke Griffin. Hi”, Clarke stammers, cheeks progressively burning, as she slowly shakes Lexa’s warm calloused hand while discreetly checking her out from head to toe.

_How can she pull off the greasy wife-beater, the Dad jeans and those god awful utility boots and still look like a model on the freakin’ runway?! Even with her hair all tangled up and no make-up! Oh. Wait. Oh god. No kidding she looks hot, watch those shoulders... and those arms… Sweet Jesus, are those, like, real muscles? Of course they’re real, stupid moron, you’re a doctor for Christ’s sake! Ok but what about the jawline? URG, SHUT UP, MIND! And why am I stuttering like a goddamn retard?!_

To add insult to injury, Clarke quickly realizes she wasn’t as inconspicuous as she hoped in her ogling when the poor woman laughs and rubs her nape self-consciously. 

“Yeah I’m sorry, it’s really not the classiest gear to wear to welcome our new guest”, she chuckles embarrassingly while looking at her own outfit with a critical eye - and Clarke feels even more like an ass to be relieved that it’s her first interpretation, because she’s not sure how she would have reacted had the girl taken her awfully impolite checking-out for what it was: pure, unadulterated leering. _I probably would’ve bolted to Italy. Yup, Italy’s nice. It was my second choice anyway._

Still, to appease her conscience, Clarke tries to backpedal as best as she can without revealing anything:

“Oh no, no, no, please, don’t be embarrassed about that! And, um, if it’ll make you feel better, you still look really… really good...”, she can’t help but sigh dreamily, before suddenly jolting out of her creepy state. _Shit, scratch that, mayday!_ “Uh, I mean, you obviously look ten times better than I would in the same outfit! So, um, don’t worry at all, you look fine! It’s fine! We’re... fine.” she lamely concludes, hoping beyond hope that her poor attempt at girly bonding succeeds. Fortunately, Lexa seems as oblivious to seduction as she is to fashion, because she cluelessly carries on talking right away without a care in the world - which cannot be said about the two men in the room, who exchange a glance before surreptitiously smirking at Clarke.

“Thanks, Clarke! _(God, the way she says my name... Awww, and look at this cute little crooked smile! Ok enough, calm your tits, Griffin)_ I was lending a hand to Ryder at the garage, well, his real name is Marc but we all call him Ryder ‘cause you know, he works with cars and stuff. Anyway, I was helping our mechanic friend Ryder next door, hence the grease spots all over my clothes. And... Oh shit, about that! God, I’m really, really sorry... But I’m pretty sure I must have dirtied your white… blouse, is that a blouse? Y’know, when you fell from the stairs? And I caught you? Actually, I was just coming back from the garage when I saw you falling and man, I was SO scared! I just ran as fast as I could before you hit the floor but god, I’m so stupid I didn’t even think about my disgusting clothes and your, like, pristine designer blouse that probably costs more than all of my wardrobe, but as I said before, I’m ready to take full responsibility for your prejudice, just tell me the price of the blouse and the three of us will find a way to pay you back. Well, it might take us a while but if you’re willing to wai-”

“Lexa.”

Lexa immediately stops her rambling, startled by the hand a kindly smiling Clarke put on her knee.

“Who cares about the blouse, really. You probably saved my life. The least I can do is thanking you.” Then, looking at each person in the room with a mischievous little smirk: “Now, who would be kind enough to take me on a tour of your lovely home?”


	2. Come Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Thanks a lot for the comments and kudos, they give me life!  
Without further ado, here's the second chapter :)

From: Clarke Griffin (clarkegriffin@gmail.com)  
To: Raven Reyes (oneyedraven_onatree@protonmail.com)  
Date: 8 april 2019 11:03 a.m. (UTC+2)  
Object: Bonjour mon petit prout! 

Dear Raven,

Before anyone panics and calls the police (i.e. Mother), please let them know I safely landed in Paris yesterday morning. I promise I wanted to send you a text as soon as I put down my suitcase, but 1) I fell asleep two hours after I got here, 2) it’s apparently impossible to charge my iPhone or my laptop here without some extremely fancy European plugs to fit in those extremely fancy European holes. I know it sounds crassly kinky and I’d usually enjoy pretending not to laugh while I’m humoring you on the subject of unorthodox sexual practices, but I am currently using someone else’s old laptop with an awfully frustrating azerty keyboard so please don’t ask me to write much more or I’ll probably terminate myself. Anyway, I’m alive and well so don’t worry! Oh, and I also don’t have a return-ticket.

Love you!

Clarke x

From: Raven Reyes (oneyedraven_onatree@protonmail.com)  
To: Clarke Griffin (clarkegriffin@gmail.com)  
Date: 8 april 2019 02:04 a.m. (UTC-7)  
Object: Re: Bonjour mon petit prout! 

SKYPE. ME. THE. FUCK. NOW.

From: Clarke Griffin (clarkegriffin@gmail.com)  
To: Raven Reyes (oneyedraven_onatree@protonmail.com)  
Date: 8 april 2019 11:07 a.m. (UTC+2)  
Object: Re: Bonjour mon petit prout! 

Aaand of course she doesn’t sleep at night like a normal person.  
Look, I know you must be confused by my sudden departure but really, I’m fine. I just needed some time to myself, is all. Anyway, Skype definitely isn’t an option on this geriatric computer but I promise I’ll call as soon as I buy those plugs, ok?

Talk to you later x

*

Clarke doesn’t wait for Raven’s undoubtedly lightning fast response before slowly closing the laptop and falling back askew on the bed with a big sigh. She contemplates her new Parisian ceiling and its artistic moldings, fingers absentmindedly caressing the elastic band of her soft sleeping shorts.

She cannot believe simply writing to her best friend took this much stress and conscious effort out of her. Even worse, Raven replying (she really should have guessed the other girl wouldn’t be asleep at two in the morning) and the both of them interacting, however briefly, was outright anxiety inducing. And it never, _ever_ happened before with Raven Reyes, even when she met the girl for the first time to inform her that her long-time boyfriend, Finn Collins, was also the same two-faced douchebag who just took her virginity after four months of dating during her freshman year of college - instead of instinctively hating each other or at the very least feel embarrassed in the other’s presence, they ditched the guy and became inseparable. 

Hence the reason why this new, sudden discomfort was so disconcerting. Has their friendship changed that much lately without her realizing? It’s true they’ve been having trouble spending quality time together these past couple months, but it’s far from the first time their excessive workloads prevented them from seeing each other as much as they want for a while, and they still call each other almost everyday. Is it something deeper, then? Something about Clarke that doesn’t concern Raven at all? In fact, Clarke knows the answer to the question. She knows she wasn’t honest with her best friend and, above all, with herself. She knows, and it frightens her.

A bit nauseous at the thoughts clouding her mind, she quickly gets up from the comfy double bed (much better than Titus’s hard single bed her unconscious ass was laid upon after the whole debacle with Gustus at her arrival yesterday), stretches her arms in the air and opens the tawny colored curtains on the superb, tall windows, revealing the lovely view of the verdant courtyard bathed in the almost-midday sun. Clarke smiles from ear to ear, instantly feeling better. _Hmm, I could get used to waking up to this everyday. I made the right choice coming here._ She then opens all the windows to air her vast single room - a loft, really, with its bedroom, living-room and kitchenette area with the red brick bar and high chairs all in the same doorless space - before putting on her fluffy slippers and dancing away on the old hardwood floor towards the stairs leading to the big shared kitchen downstairs.

As soon as she opens her loft apartment’s door, she is submerged by the rhythmic sound of guitars, piano, tambourine and… a trumpet? _How the hell did I not hear that from my room?_ she wonders, quietly walking down the stairs to the ground-floor and turning on the left, guided by the somewhat familiar music towards the kitchen. _What’s this song again? It’s like, SUPER famous... I don’t think that’s the original version though. But it’s really cool. Kind of brilliant, actually. Mm, I’ll ask Lexa or whoever’s playing it right now so I can download-_

“Oh. Wow.” she breathes with wonder, abruptly stopping at the threshold.

There, not ten feet away from her, may well be the most beautifully chaotic, vivid and joyous scene she’s had the pleasure of watching in a very long time. Gathered around the long, rustic wooden table already littered with a miscellanea of things (ranging from baguettes, fresh pastries, fruits, jams, cheese and dried sausage to hand-rolling tobacco crumbs, suffocating ashtrays and empty wine bottles), are at least six people, either sitting precariously atop said table or on the benches and stools framing it, each playing an instrument and seemingly entranced by a pure, unrestrained childlike joy. Among the adults (half of them giant bearded men the likes of Gustus, Clarke notices as she wonders what on earth is the average, typical French meal) are two young children, a blond boy and a tiny brunette girl, both appearing just as ecstatic as the grown-ups surrounding them and looking absolutely adorable with their little faces covered in chocolate and breadcrumbs and their little pudgy fists banging in rhythm on the table. 

But the centerpiece of this whole wonderful mess is Lexa: sweaty, sexy, chestnut messy-long-haired Lexa, sort of modern Jesus casually leaning against the counter in running shorts and a sports bra, playing the acoustic guitar surrounded by her apostles. The experience is biblical, and Clarke knows with a sudden clarity that she’ll never forget this image - and that’s not even counting when Lexa actually starts to _sing_, oh god, when she sings…

Here come old flat top  
He come groovin' up slowly  
He got joo-joo eyeballs  
He one holy roller  
He got hair down to his knees  
Got to be a joker  
He just do what he please

Her voice is deliciously raspy and strong and bluesy as she sings to the kids, staring right at them with funny faces and a ridiculous choreography consisting of stupidly flexing her knees while exaggerating the pronunciation on some of the lyrics, like “joo-joo eyeballs”, which makes the children shriek loudly in delighted laughter as they try to imitate her. Gustus and two other guitar playing seven feet tall gorilla friends Clarke doesn’t know, harmonize their voices with Lexa on the chorus (“Come together / Right now / Over me”: _The Beatles, of course!_), followed by a hypnotizing duet from Titus and a tall handsome guy with dark skin and a shaved head, respectively on the synth piano and harmonica. Clarke is so engrossed in the magical impromptu concert that she doesn’t notice the little presence right in front of her, until it quite literally grabs her tank top and pulls. Startled, she looks down and dives straight into the loveliest pair of dark green eyes and the cutest, most endearing smile she’s ever seen.

“Salut, t’es qui? Moi c’est Madi. Waou, t’es trop belle, on dirait une princesse! Hé, tu veux bien me lire mon livre sur le canapé du salon? Mais d’abord je dois faire caca, alors je veux bien que tu m’aides”, the little girl lisps in rapid-fire french while jumping excitedly on the spot. Clarke is still trying to translate what she just heard (_something like “you’re pretty like a princess”, reading a book, and… pooping? Nah, it can’t be!_ ) when the blond little boy from earlier, who must be two or three years older, comes to her rescue.

“Madi! Qu’est-ce que je t’ai déjà dit mille fois? On ne saute pas sur les gens comme ça!” he scolds, hands on the little girl’s shoulders. Then, turning to Clarke: “Désolé pour ma petite soeur, elle ne comprend rien aux conventions sociales… Je m’appelle Aden, et toi?”. Clarke looks down at his small hand and shakes it with a smile before attempting to reply to the best of her abilities, cringing as she speaks at her awful accent. “Je m’appelle Clarke. Mais je ne parle pas bien le français, désolée”. 

“Oh! You speak english, don’t you? You should have told us. I’m Aden and this is Madi, my little sister. Where do you come from?” the boy replies easily with a perfect British accent, while containing a squirming Madi (who seems very excited at the news for some reason) in an obviously practiced headlock without breaking a sweat. Just as Clarke is about to answer, impressed and grateful, in her mother tongue, a threatening shadow appears behind the kids and snatches them both off the ground in a flash, snarling and roaring playfully.

“What are you little demons doing to my friend Clarke?” Lexa demands in a big booming voice, pretending to eat the flailing little limbs vainly attempting to escape her unbreakable hold in a flurry of childish laughs and shrieks. Taking advantage of their noisy wrestling, Clarke cannot resist devouring Lexa’s golden body with her eyes once again, this time focusing on the mouthwatering abs, godly carved Adonis belt stroking the endless legs, the powerful thighs and sculpted calves. _Everything in her body is so toned and chiseled… I mean, come on! She’s about six feet tall, her shoulders are broad, her hips are narrow, she has a six pack and she cannot be more than eight or nine percent body fat. Those features are like, so extremely rare in a woman! And as far as I know, she’s not even a professional athlete - then again, she’s wearing a sports bra and running shorts, so what the fuck do I know, right. Speaking of those shorts... They’re awfully bunched up in the crotch area, aren’t they? Haha, funny what the proper angle and a well placed sunbeam can do to trick your vision, I could swear she’s got a big, fat D-_

“CLARKE! Can you help me with my poo-poo?” Madi fairly screams at her all of a sudden, her round baby face popping up right in front of Lexa’s crotch. 

Clarke blinks, reeling from the abrupt change of focus for a painfully mute second, before reality sets in again as Lexa and Aden burst out laughing beside them. They’re soon followed by the musicians (that Clarke has honestly _completely_ forgotten at this point) who all stopped playing at Madi’s outburst in a cacophony of missed notes and what sounds like a Santa Claus convention, full of “haha”, “hoho” and slapped thighs.

“Come on, Madi” the dark skinned harmonica player ends up saving her, wet eyes still wrinkling in laughter, “You don’t need anybody to wipe your little bum, leave poor Clarke alone”. _ Why does he know my name…?_

“But she’s so pwettyyyyy!” the little girl pouts, frowning, which elicits more laughs from her audience.

“Yup, she is”, Lexa intervenes, trying to keep a straight face - and making Clarke’s heart skip a beat at the compliment. “One more reason to leave her away from dirty butts. How often do you see princesses paddle in poop in your fairytales, huh? That’s right, never. Now go with your brother and clean up those faces, you’re leaving for school in twenty.”

“What about my poo-poo?” Madi insists, starting to get upset.

“Oh, sweetie” Clarke now officially melts, kneeling before the child and softly stroking her plump little cheek. “No one will keep you from your poo-poo. Why don’t you take care of this first and _then_ go get ready for school with Aden, hmm? How does that sound?”

The little girl tilts her head, observing her with an almost frightening intensity for a few seconds, before suddenly falling in her arms, squirming her chubby face between Clarke’s breasts and hugging her with surprising strength.

“Thank you, Clarke” she says, her heartfelt little voice muffled as Clarke, startled and moved by the unexpected show of affection, reciprocates the fierce embrace as protectively as she can without smothering the girl.

Then, firecracker of nuclear proportions, whispered so softly that she almost misses it: “I wish you were my mum”.

_Oh god, no._ Clarke freezes, the air knocked out of her lungs. She kisses the little girl’s temple once, then buries her face in the crook of her neck, the two irrepressible tears furiously squeezed out of her closed eyes getting lost amidst the beautiful brown locks. She stays in this position for maybe a bit longer than what is expected, before tenderly patting Madi’s back and standing up like nothing happened - perfectly composed, as if her heart didn’t just break in half for the thousandth time since _it_ occurred. Thankfully, Aden and Madi finally leave the kitchen soon after, most of the adults still chuckling for a while behind them, before everyone resumes their breakfast at the dining table. _It’s ok. I stopped it, no one saw. No one saw me falter,_ Clarke tells herself, both relieved and bitter.

_“Do you even_ feel _anything sometimes, Clarke? Or does deciding who gets to live or die everyday left you cold and empty?”_

“Hey Clarke”, the handsome harmonica player from earlier interrupts her dark musings with his charming grin and smooth British accent. _A distraction, perfect: I like you already._ “We didn’t have the occasion to be officially introduced with all this morning heckling. I’m Lincoln Reid. You’re the trio’s famous new housemate, aren’t you?”

“Hey. Um, yes. Yes, I am” she replies, shaking his hand with a hesitant smile on the lips. “Well, I don’t know if I exactly qualify as a roommate, considering that I don’t know when I’ll fly back to the U.S., but I guess it’s close enough. And, um, wh- what do you mean by ‘famous’?”

“Oooh, don’t think we haven’t heard about you alrea-”

“Lincooooln!” Lexa whines from her position at the sink, turning around to throw a wet rag in his face. He manages to avoid it with gusto, only for it to land flat on Titus’s bald head with a splurch (“I’m way too old for this” Clarke thinks she hears the man mutter under his breath, as she tries very hard not to burst out laughing).

“What?” Lincoln chuckles, scooting a bit to the right to let Clarke sit on the bench beside him. “I didn’t know it was supposed to be a secr-”

“Clarke, can I get you a cup of coffee? Or some tea, perhaps?”

“Oh! A coffee, please, one sugar and a dash of cream. Thank you, Lexa”.

“Stop interrupting, Woods! I’m gonna answer the question whether you like it or not” the Englishman retorts, before addressing Clarke with a little smirk. “Well, let’s just say you made quite the impression at your arrival yesterday.”

“Oh, _that_...” she drawls, cheeks reddening.

“Leave the poor girl alone, Lincoln. She’s still jet lagged and we already told you the story, so you know the whole damned thing was my fault”, Gustus interrupts the young man between two ginourmous bites of saucisson-camembert sandwich, then uses it to point at the feast on the table. “Here, eat anything you like, kiddo”. 

“Thanks, Gustus”, Clarke says gratefully, picking up the delicious-looking chocolate pastry she’s set her eyes on since she entered the kitchen. She bites into it and moans in ecstasy, eyes fluttering and head thrown back, when the butter sweet flavor and fine crispy-tender texture hit her taste buds in an orgasmic explosion of sugary pleasure. “Oh my god, this is amazing! What is it again?”.

“_Pain au chocolat_” Lexa answers with a cough and strangely rosy cheeks, sitting at the head of the table on her left with two smoking coffee mugs, sliding one in front of Clarke - all the while curiously avoiding to look her in the eyes, Clarke notes with a frown - but before she can finish chewing and ask if everything is alright, Lexa swiftly changes the subject as she turns her attention to the bearded giants sitting on each side of Gustus: “By the way, Clarke, this is Nyko and Ryder, two very dear friends of ours”

“Hello there,'' Nyko says with a small wave and a gentle smile, while Ryder vaguely gruffs in acknowledgment, barely glancing up from his food.

“Hey, what about me!” Lincoln muffles indignantly, mouth stuffed with an _éclair à la vanille_.

“You, genius, already introduced yourself three minutes ago” Lexa deadpans, the ghost of a grin on her lips the only subtle indicator of her affection for the man. “But if you want it so bad: Clarke, this is Lincoln Reid, 29, six-foot-two, 190 lbs, musician bartender extraordinaire originally from London who’s been haunting the City of Love for the last nine years. He’s also notorious for being, and please let me quote this with my most mediocre rendition of a British accent, my _best mate_, along with his sister Anya. Now, have I properly introduced you, Bearington, or do you want me to throw in a couple of anecdotes to really drive it home? What about your childhood nighttime ritual with your aforementioned big sister, hmm? Awfully touching story if you ask me”.

“I’ll be alright, Lexa, you can stop right there, thank you very much” Lincoln quickly mutters, effectively chastised, while the others share shit-eating grins and cackles.

“Oh, I didn’t get to tell you!” Clarke remembers suddenly, getting a bit starry-eyed and garnering everyone’s attention. “Your morning jam session? It was incredible! Are you guys a professional band or something? I’ve never heard The Beatles played that way before!”

*

Clarke ends up learning quite a bit about the merry fellowship during this late breakfast. 

Even if none of them likes to call themselves _professional_ stricto-sensu (they think it’s vain and overall pretentious to label themselves as such in today’s global, high-tech, free-information-for-all online platforms landscape), they’re all obviously very accomplished artists sharing an endless love of music in all its forms, whether they received a classical formation (Titus and Nyko), individual lessons (Gustus and Ryder), or developed their craft autodidactically from an early age (Lexa and Lincoln).

She also makes some unexpected - and sometimes hilarious - discoveries about each of them. While Gus’s and Ryder’s jobs don’t exactly surprise her from what she gathered from their personalities (they are respectively a carpenter and a mechanic), she’s impressed to learn that Nyko is a veterinary, and simply cannot stop laughing when Lincoln discloses that Titus, now a published writer specializing in philosophy and theology, was a catholic priest for twenty years. Only when she starts asking questions about why he left the church can she detect a slight change in the good-natured atmosphere; not discomfort, and even less shame, but something akin to modesty, almost bashfulness - and if the glances between Titus and Lexa are anything to go by, his departure could have something to do with the young woman.

Not wanting to seem overly curious and crossing a line in the process, however, Clarke subtly veers the conversation towards safer waters, engaging in a less risky and much funnier debate about Lexa’s multiple jobs, hence learning for the first time of her legendary versatile talents and supposed ability to absorb all kinds of knowledge in record time. A “real superpower”, according to her bragging friends, who for some reason seem a lot prouder of this fact than the one it directly concerns, the woman in question facepalming with both hands in obvious embarrassment.

_Ok. So not only is she the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, she’s also humble, gifted and wicked smart? And she plays a gazillion instruments and sings like a goddess? Where’s the catch?_

Two damnably strong coffees, five _chouquettes_ and a hand-rolled cigarette later (she usually _never_ smokes without drinking, as she considers herself a very occasional smoker, but the overall happy foreign mood coupled with all the reasons that pushed her to flee Los Angeles and her entire continent in the first place, seem to have activated an uncharacteristic but nonetheless liberating feeling of fuck-it-all carelessness within her), Clarke finally decides it is high time to go get a shower, at the same time her new companions and guests need to leave for work. She says goodbye to Lincoln, Ryder and Nyko (taking advantage of the situation to practice “la bise”), and quickly helps Lexa and Titus with the kitchen’s cleaning. Just as she’s about to walk up the stairs to her apartment, she suddenly remembers her technological predicament, stopping in her tracks with an eloquent “ah, shit”.

“Lexa!” she calls out in the corridor, hand on the rail and foot on the first step. She hears footsteps, followed by her host’s tall and sculpted frame gracefully joining her before the stairs in all her semi-naked, sports bra & running shorts glory. _Oh, god. I didn’t think this through, did I?_

“Yes, Clarke?” Lexa asks, towering over her in a casual pose, one hand on the hip and the other tangled in her hair, as she leans against the railing with a one-sided smile that manages to be both sweet and so very, very sexy. 

“Hey, um, I was wondering” Clarke starts with difficulty, first dazzled by the visual, then by the proximity of the same earthy, intoxicating smell that enraptured her the day before, when she fell in Lexa’s arms. “Do you know where I can buy some plug adapters for my iPhone and my laptop? I mean, Gustus lent me his old one yesterday so I could contact my friends back home, but it’s kinda… you know” she chuckles awkwardly with a shrug, scratching her bare shoulder at a weird, impractical angle, before her eyes nearly pop out of their sockets in realization: “Not that I’m not grateful that he lent it to me! Oh my god! I didn’t want to sound unappreciative or spoiled or anything! I’m just-”

To her surprise (and great relief, if she’s honest), Lexa bursts out laughing, bending forward with a hand splayed flat on her defined abs.

“Oh god, Clarke, _of course_ you can say it! That thing is a complete wreck, it’s a miracle it doesn’t disintegrate every time you turn it on, it's _that_ old. Did you really think any of us would feel insulted and be mad at you over that obvious pile of crap?”

“Well, sure, when you say it like that…” the blonde huffs with faux-indignation, crossing her arms with a frown, before she drops all pretense. They laugh once again, Clarke relaxing instantly.

“Ha geez, you’re cute” Lexa sighs, eyes crinkling in amused affection. They stare at each other for a suspended second, soft smiles on their faces, when the weight of the moment seems to grip them both all at once. Clarke quickly turns entirely scarlet and Lexa, coughing and sputtering, is not doing much better in her attempt to bring the conversation back on track. “But, um, yeah, you definitely need to buy some adapters. And some power converters, too. ‘Cause the voltage is higher here, you know? Like, almost twice as much. Alright. And you’ll also need them for stuff. _Other_ stuff, I mean. Like your… hairdryer. Or any other electrical device, really. So, uh, make a list of what you need and I’ll go with you, I know a guy not far from here in the _Marais_ who’ll give you a good price. I mean, if that’s ok with you, of course. Is that ok with you?”

“Yeah, sure! It would be great, actually” Clarke replies breathlessly, heartbeat still a bit erratic. “You sure it’s not a problem for you, though? I could go on my own if you have other things to do.”

“Oh no, I’m good. My schedule’s clear today, so you can take your time.”

“Great. I shouldn’t be more than an hour, then.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Clarke warmly thanks Lexa and attacks the stairs. She is still climbing up to her quarters, legs wobbly and giddy, when Lexa calls out to her once again. Halfway to her destination, she turns around and looks down the length of the stairs.

“Yes?”

“I’m really glad you feel better since what happened in the kitchen. With Madi.”

“What…? I wasn’t-” she starts, eyes widening, terrified and shocked to have been discovered and ready to deny everything like she always does. But it only takes one glance at Lexa’s aquamarine eyes, so open, so compassionate, yet so completely devoid of pity, like she really _understands_, for Clarke to deflate and completely drop the act. “Yeah”, she finally breathes with a barely perceptible smile. “Thank you. I’m really glad, too.”

Lexa simply nods, smiles in return, and leaves for the living-room. 

Standing there for a while, left alone with her thoughts and astonished by the turn of events, Clarke wonders how she let her guard down - and, above all, why she doesn’t feel ashamed to be exposed.

_Someone saw. Someone saw me falter. And it’s ok._


End file.
